


Cartography

by wizened_cynic



Series: Dress Your Family in Kevlar and Armani [4]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizened_cynic/pseuds/wizened_cynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Beatrice got her name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cartography

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently my plans for every weekend go like this: 1. Have no social life, 2. Ignore my work Blackberry, 3. Write lots of disgusting sappy babyfic. So, this happened. In the full interest of disclosure, I have no idea when this universe is set and how old these people are supposed to be, so please forgive any and all mistakes you may find in relation canon, spelling, grammar, everything.

  
Rossi used to scoff at his friends who professed their sudden realization that their entire purpose in life was to become fathers to their children. Granted, these delcarations of love were often made within days of said children's birthds, when his friends had been sleep-deprived for days and were clearly out of their minds, but still. They were ridiculous.

But now he understands, truly understands, that everything in his life up to this moment --- all those years with the FBI, studying rotting corpses and decapitated heads, evaluating damage done at crime scenes --- all of these things have happened to prepare him for dealing with the apocalpytic mess in his daughter's diaper.

She is two weeks old. How is it possible that such a tiny person could produce so much poop?

"You," he says to the baby, whose incandescent rage has been placated now that she is allowed to be naked, "are either very advanced for your age or you're just being difficult for your old man."

The baby's legs jerk out of Rossi's grasp and thank god for those reflexes he honed from being in the field, or she would've stuck her tiny little foot into the dirty diaper.

"You're lucky you're so cute," he tells her as he begins wiping her down with handful after handful of baby wipes while she flails her arms and stares at him with big, serious eyes that say, _I do not care who the hell you are as long as you wipe my ass._

Rossi's getting real good at this diaper-changing thing and it only takes him five minutes to get the kid cleaned up and into a fresh diaper. He doesn't even worry about the diaper being too loose or too tight anymore (it's a _legitimate_ worry that if the tabs are too tight, the baby might explode, he doesn't know why Emily finds it so hilarious). Changing about a thousand diapers in the last two weeks has been pretty good practice.

Now he's dealing with a content baby instead of a raging baby, and a content baby is his favorite kind of baby. Actually, if he's going to be honest about it, he is pretty fond of this baby in all of her variations, even when half-encased in fecal matter and screaming her head off.

Reid is chalking it up to Rossi's increased production of prolactin and has been lecturing Rossi about it for days. He has also offered to come up with a logarithm to help them name the baby, and Rossi is tempted to say yes if it means Reid would shut up about the prolactin.

Emily comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered, her hair damp and her eyes bright, and despite her tiredness she looks young and wise and is quite possibly the most beautiful thing Rossi has ever seen. "You look gorgeous," he says, kissing her in greeting, and the baby squeaks a little at being suddenly pressed between them.

"You're just saying that because I had your kid," she teases, kissing him back and then taking the baby from him. The baby's still naked except for her diaper, and Emily is onto that. "You were waiting for me to dress her, weren't you?"

Dressing the kid is two-person job. Rossi is still freaked out about the part where they have to stick the baby's head through the neck of the shirt. The first time he and Emily did this on their own, he _might've_ said out loud, "Oh, shit, we're going to break her."

Together they mange to wrangle the kid into a onesie covered with baby chicks, which she will probably puke all over in about twenty minutes. Rossi takes the easy job of holding the baby still while Emily deals with the snaps and the sleeves and the actual maneuvering of limbs. She's a natural at it. Rossi has always known that Emily would be a natural at this, being a mother, having kids, but he didn't realize the extent of this until he saw her in the delivery room, kissing the sticky head of their new daughter who was still covered in blood and goop and not nearly as cute as Anne Geddes would want you to believe. He almost burst into tears at how indescribably _lucky_ he is, to be in love with this woman and to have a child with her, to have had the privilege of giving her the one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world, and if he did cry a little, well, it's the prolactin. Just ask Reid.

They settle the baby into the garish eyesore of a bouncer that JJ swore would save their lives or at least their eardrums, just in time for the doorbell to ring.

Hotch has brought flowers, a bouquet of Gerbera daisies in bright orange and pink. Jack stands solemnly beside him, holding out a plush dinosaur with the reverence of somebody making a tribute.

"Uncle Dave," Jack says, beating Rossi to the punch, "can I wash my hands?"

"Sure," Rossi says, opening the door wide so Jack can scoot in. Mudgie barks in delight but is promptly ignored. "Wow, I didn't know washing hands was all the rage now for the kindergarten set."

"I told him he could only hold the baby if he washes his hands first," Hotch says. Rossi takes the flowers from him and in that moment something sparks between them, unspoken, a secret handshake welcoming Rossi to the club of fatherhood or something. Welcome, new member. You will live in complete and utter fear for somebody else's well-being for the rest of your life. "He's only washed his hands about six times this morning."

Mudgie crawls back to his bed in disappointment as Jack emerges from the bathroom, holding out his freshly-scrubbed hands. "They're clean," he tells Rossi. "I did the soap and sang the whole 'Happy Birthday' song. Can I see my baby now?"

"It's his baby," Rossi says, amused.

"Pick your battles," Hotch advises.

"Jack, the baby is in the den with Aunt Emily. You can go see her now."

The five-year-old literally beams with delight, as if he had been told that today was Christmas and Halloween and his birthday all rolled into one. Rossi and Hotch follow as he skips into the den. Jack stops when he approaches the bouncer, suddenly shy. He whispers to Emily, "Is that her?"

"This is her," Emily says.

Jack kneels beside the bouncer and gazes down at the baby, struck wordless with wonder. _Kid_ , Rossi thinks, _I know how you feel._ "She is so little!" Jack crows as he reaches in to touch the baby's head. "Her fingers are so small. Look, Daddy, look at her fingers."

"I see them, buddy," says Hotch, and it's possibly the most Rossi has seen him smile, ever. "She's cute, isn't she?"

Jack continues stroking the baby's head with open-mouthed wonder. "She's the cutest baby," he asserts and Emily rolls her eyes at Rossi when Rossi nods in agreement with the assessment. "I love her so much. She is the best baby."

Then Hotch asks the question which Rossi has come to hate. "Did you guys come up with a name?"

"No," Emily admits in defeat. "We can't agree on anything. Plus, we're tired. Cut us some slack."

"They actually let you out of the hospital without giving her a name?"

That actually took a lot of persuasion on Rossi's part and has led him to discover that the miracle of childbirth is nothing compared to the miracle of him and Emily being allowed to take their child home without a name for the birth certificate. The paperwork is going to be a nightmare in the future, and given that he and Emily have spent all of their time trying to keep the baby fed and happy and clean in the last two weeks, they have not yet managed to sit down to have a sensible conversation about names. So, there is a very real possibility that their daughter might remain Baby Girl Rossi for the rest of her life.

Maybe they _should_ take Reid up on his logarithm.

"We don't want to name her after anybody," Emily explains. "I just think she needs a name to herself. That she doesn't have to share with anyone or live up to."

"And we couldn't agree on anything else," Rossi says. "Except Alexandra. Is Alexandra still on the table?"

Emily makes a face and scrutinizes their daughter, who blinks up at her mother with equal intensity. "Maybe for a middle name."

Alexandra means "defender of man," which the Ambassador thinks is fitting considering what Emily and Dave do for a living, but as much as they both like their jobs, they don't exactly wish it on their daughter. She's still new, Emily says. She has options. She can be anything.

"Lack of a name aside, she's doing great," Rossi tells Hotch, who is now sitting beside Emily and marveling at the baby along with his son. "She's the bee's knees."

"Can I hold Beez?" Jack asks Emily.

_Beez,_ Rossi thinks as Hotch tells Jack to take a seat on the sofa. _Beezus,_ he thinks as Emily takes the baby out of the bouncer and places her in Jack's open arms, reminding him to be careful to support the baby's head.

_Beatrice_ , he thinks as Emily meets his gaze and grins at him, and he loves her in a way that he's never known before. He's fifty-four years old and he knows love, he's loved his parents, a few friends, all of his wives. But loving Emily is like finding new territory in a map he thought he knew, a new land that wasn't there before. He imagines that is what Columbus must have felt when he discovered the new world, while Rossi's love for his daughter is uncharted waters, the discovery of galaxies and solar systems beyond his comprehension.

"'Beatrice,'" Rossi reads aloud that night from the well-marked baby name book JJ loaned them. "'Bringer of joy.'"

"Yeah," Emily says thoughtfully, nibbling on her nails. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go with it. Beatrice Alexandra."

It's pretty clear that neither of them are calling the shots here, and Rossi might be a fussy, anal-retentive control freak, but these days he's learning to roll with it.

Which is why when Beatrice Alexandra (bringer of joy, defender of man) lets out a pathetic kitten-cry that signals _I am now lying in my own urine, which displeases me. Somebody FIX THIS_ , he doesn't even think twice before getting up.


End file.
